One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife
by AmbrLupin
Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it
1. Not just another day at the races

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter one: Not just another day at the races

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Racetrack Higgins.

There was a reason for why his name was what it was. Many thought it was because of the way he sold his papes over the bridge at Sheepshead Racetrack. A Manhattan boy selling in Brooklyn. There was no other newsie in New York who would dare test Spot Conlon's temper.

He lived for it.

The Sheepshead Racetrack wasn't a place for the soft-hearted either. Just because it was on the edge of Brooklyn didn't mean it wasn't a part of Brooklyn. He knew that from experience, but not how you would think. He had grown up there, after all.

Surprised?

He was only around seven when he had been found wandering around the horse corral at Sheepshead. He was a small boy, Italian of course, but with no family to claim, no memory at all of his past, except for a gold pocket-watch.

That was one of the reasons why Mr. Higgins, the owner of the track at the time, had let him stay there as his apprentice. Another was that he had found the boy being harassed by a few of his customers.

Apparently a gold pocket-watch sold high in Brooklyn.

And the men had wanted it.

Higgins had come running, but it was too late. One of the horses had come to the kid's rescue. The horse was a prized stallion that went by the name Racetrack. The man had seen fire in the kid's eyes and took him under his wing.

Then he went and died.

Race sat back in his seat, a cigar in his mouth. Propping his feet on the rail in front of him he waited for the gates to open. He had put his money on a small stallion with a dark coat. It was the first time he had ever betted on a dark horse. Why was that?

It reminded him too much of Racetrack.

They had to put the stallion down a few years after he had been found, due to an injury that had left his left back leg useless. They didn't need a lame horse, so they killed him. Race had been there, had held his savior's head as the life bled slowly from those dark and fiery eyes.

It was the first time Race had ever saw someone die.

But not the last.

He had started as a newsie under Red, the leader of Brooklyn at that time, and had gotten a message sometime around noon that said his father needed him desperately at the track. He knew something was wrong right there. Arthur Higgins was many things, but a soft man was not one of them. He had adopted Race, but made it clear he wanted something understood.

He was no father.

The twelve year old had handed his papers off to a friend and ran all the way back. He had barely made it in time. He stood by the other's bed, tears streaming down his face. A customer had gotten a little zealous over a loss and had stabbed him over ten times before help arrived.

There was nothing anyone could do. He died a few hours after the attack, bled out as he held his adopted son's hand. The last words he ever said were to Race, and to Race alone.

"I want you to get out of here, Race..." His words were breathy, but strong. "I want you to leave Brooklyn, you understand? Get far away, never come back..." A tear slid down his face, "But never...never lose your name, Racetrack. Never lose your name."

He had meant...to never lose his last name. A name that no one recognized in Manhattan, but in Brooklyn...His name would almost be enough to give him the track. Almost. But he did what he had been told.

He left Brooklyn for Manhattan.

But not the track. Never the track.

The gates slammed open with the sound of a gunshot, the horses tearing across the ground with a deafening sound that had many toward the front wincing. Race loved the sound, had been able to fall asleep hearing it. Among the shouts and desperate cries...

It had been his lullaby when he had been young.

He leaned forward a little so he could see better. His stallion was falling behind, that was no surprise. He never won when he came here, even though he could pick the winner with barely a glance. The races here were rigged, although Race didn't know how. As for the Why?

Money rules. He knew that, had known then since the men had come after him. He wasn't really there for the money, anyway. Yeah, it would have been nice, but it didn't matter. He put his money on the horse that was supposed to win, not the one whose owner payed to win.

There was no honor in doing that, no suspense, no thrill. He watched as his little horse fell farther and farther back, watching as his rider let it happen, even though the stallion wanted to run, was born to run. He wanted to win, thats why he was there, giving it his all.

Race flicked the end of his cigar, watching the ashes fall to the ground. He could hardly help but think what Racetrack would have done in this situation. Break free, naturally. Win, of course. As they neared the last turn, the newsie got to his feet. It was time to leave. It had been just another day at the races after all, he had lost. That was nothing new.

The stallion broke free of his rider.

At the roar of the crowd, Race turned his head, eyes widening as the little horse tore up the ground, his eyes seeming to be encased with fire. He ran past the others effortlessly, almost as if he was running on air, his hooves never touching the dirt.

Past the fifth, the fourth, the third.

"Come on." Race whispered, eyes glued to the horse, "Come on, you can do it. Come on..."

Shooting past the second.

"Don't let them do this to you..." The newsie was up against the rail, cigar forgotten. "Don't let them win, don't let them scabs win. Come on!"

Past the first and across the line.

Race was so shocked the forgotten cigar fell from his slack fingers, hitting the concrete with a soft thump that seemed to echo forever in his ears. He had won, HE had won. It was amazing, it was hilarious, it was...pandemonium.

The entire stadium was in an uproar, on their feet, demanding to know what had happened, DEMANDED to have a rematch. But they wouldn't get one, that was the way the races worked, after all, but when it was the entire betting population against one horse...

Dear lord, he was rich.

His mind didn't even want to wrap itself around the number of hundreds of dollars he had just won. He didn't want to thing about what it would mean either. He didn't have to be a newsie anymore, he could buy a house, put his friends up...

He was going to get killed.

Already people had asked who had bet on that horse, and already people were turning his way. Men, big men, angry men, lots and lots of big, angry men. There was no way to get out of this one, no way to stay here and fight.

His hand slipped around the betting voucher in his pocket, clapping the other on his hat as he turned and bolted, slipping under the rail as they all rushed at him, picking up chairs and other such oddities.

Bursting out of the gates he quickly looked around before running through the Brooklyn streets, dodging and weaving in and out of people, his hand holding his hat to his head.

Just another day at the races?

Not at all.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Yay! I luv it! So use that nifty button on the bottom left that says 'Submit Review'


	2. An adventure

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter two: An adventure

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Spot Conlon.

He was the leader of Brooklyn, a person whose name brought a shiver down most men's spines, made them sit up and take notice, his very presence ceased voices, froze the bravest of the brave. He commanded with an iron fist and used it to back himself up. Everyone listened to him, respected him.

Except for Racetrack Higgins.

There was no real reason as to why Spot thought of him now, hadn't seen him since the strike, actually. The annoying kid made it a habit to pop up every now and then for a poker game in which all the men involved lost to him, but he hadn't been around in a while.

Race had once been a fellow newsie of Brooklyn, a while ago when Red had still been leader, but he had left them for Manhattan. Didn't say a word to anyone, just packed his stuff and left. Even Red hadn't known what to make of it.

Turns out he had just switched sides.

Tapping the end of his cigarette he frowned, leaning back and watching the smoke drift toward the lazy afternoon sky. It was overcast, giving them all a reprieve from the week's heat. Clouds promised rain, it seemed like, and soon too.

Pulling the brim of his cap down he watched the docks as more and more of his men came home ragged and weary. Brooklyn wasn't for sissies. If you were going to sell papes here, you had to work for it.

A small smile of pride touched his lips, then. His boys were the best of the best, each seasoned and worth his wealth. Spot couldn't have been happier being their leader. Oh, he didn't like it all the time, particularly when one of them decided they wanted to have a turn as head-honcho, but overall it wasn't bad.

He still had to go out and do his share, of course, but he always got a little under what he knew he could sell, just to make sure he was home in time to relax and watch the others come home. He was always watching, always on guard.

He had learned that lesson well.

Shrugging his shoulders a little he sighed, puffing the last on his cigarette before throwing it over the side of his perch. He propped his leg up on the ledge in front of him, arms crossed over his chest.

He felt uneasy, and hadn't a clue why.

The youth hadn't truly felt like this in quite a while, all bunched up, waiting for something to fall upon him like a bat out of hell. He couldn't get comfortable, couldn't relax no matter what he did. He had tried reading, had tried sitting by himself and thinking. So far none of it was working. He needed adventure, he needed a challenge.

Only one thing to do.

He stretched his back as he stood, bracing one hand on the wall as he jumped it, catching a hold of the wooden framework that ran up a few feet from the building, scaling down it with the ease of a master. He had done this a lot, it would seem. He had barely touched the ground before a voice halted him.

"Goin' somewhere, kid?"

There was only one person who could call him that and not get snapped at because of it. He turned, a smile on his face, "Maybe. Why, gonna miss me, Red?"

Red grinned at him, leaned back against a beam, "As always," He placed a hand against his chest, his red hair falling into his eyes. "My heart will ache because of your absence."

He snorted, a hand laying lightly on the head of his cane, not because he was afraid or on edge, just because it was how he usually stood. "You're full of it."

Red had basically raised Spot, taken him in, trained him to be a newsie and future leader, molded him into becoming a honorable man, a man worthy of Brooklyn. He hadn't done a bad job, all things considered, and Spot would trust him, had trusted him, with his life.

"Yeah, I know." His hand went behind his head as he leaned back. "So, where ya headin'?" His sharp emerald eyes pinned Spot down without even trying to.

The younger shrugged, he was used to the gaze, "Around, tryin to take my mind off things. Maybe down to the track or whatnot."

The former leader raised his eyebrow, "Still gettin those headaches?"

It was a code they had worked out. His headaches were his feelings, and Spot nodded to tell him he had guessed right. "I shouldn't be gone long. Get the bois in if im not 'ere, its gonna rain tonight."

After some more playful banter the leader left on his walk, hands in his pockets, the golden end of his cane glinting in the veiled and dying sun. He was taking the trip to stop thinking, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect.

He was finding it quite difficult to stop thinking about Race.

It had hurt a lot when the other had left, especially since he hadn't said a word to his best friend, leaving him there to stare at the empty bunk, wondering what had happened. Why he would leave right when business was booming, why he would leave...him.

Spot had gotten over it, of course, but when he had seen Race one day, selling papes on the edge of Brooklyn, he couldn't stop the feeling of betrayal, couldn't keep it from spreading to every edge of his being, out and out and out...

He still didn't know what had made Race leave, come to think of it. He wanted to ask, every time he saw the poker player, but he couldn't. It brought up so many memories, some happy, some not, but all of them painful.

Betrayal was one of the highest crimes to the newsies of New York, and in Spot's mind, Racetrack Higgins was guilty of it, no matter how many times he laughed and joked with him, he was a betrayer. And that was something the leader of Brooklyn would never forget.

What he wanted to forget, however, was that he had ever cared about Race.

But then, why was he going down to the Sheepshead Racetrack, hoping to run into him?

Cursing at himself he turned to go home, after all, what good was the walk doing? When he heard it, the commotion coming from the racetrack. Frowning he paused and looked back over his shoulder. What in the world was going on?

Making his way down the road he came to the corner and his eyes nearly doubled in size. A large crowd of people were pouring out of the gates, some waving clubs and others fumbling for knives. Never, in all of his life, had he seen such a sight.

But, somehow, he wasn't surprised to see the very person he was thinking about in the middle of it all. Race looked frantic, and for good reason, those people looked ready enough to commit murder. And why not? It was Brooklyn, after all.

He waited until the other newsie was close enough to hear him and then, arms crossed over his chest, foot tapping, he demanded. "What are you doing?"

"Runnin!" He cried, reaching out and grabbing a hold of the other's arm, "Come on!"

Spot was so startled he couldn't do anything but keep his feet under him as he was drug all over his territory, eyes still wide as the mob continued to follow them, their voices crying out for the other to stop and give up. Dear lord, what had Race DONE!

However, he couldn't help the thought that crossed his mind, laced with dry humor and sarcasm. _'I wanted some adventure. Guess I found some.' _

Now the only question was why?

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

There ya go, ya rabid Spot fans. A chapter centered all on him! -smile-

NOW I expect lots and lots of reviews! I got this up early for you peeps!

Click on the 'submit review' button on the bottom left of your screen!

GOOOOOO!


	3. The fight

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter three: The fight

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Spot was getting just a little tired of the running. Jerking Race by his collar, he slammed the other into a small alley, pinning him to the wall, eyes a fiery blaze. They waited in silence as the mob passed them by, surprisingly enough.

"Higgins." He snapped, irritated now. "What. Did. You. Do!"

"Not here." Race pushed him aside and grabbed his wrist, "Ill tell you, just not here."

Spot wasn't moving and he shook off the other's hand. "Here's as good as dere. Tell me what you did NOW."

The Manhattan boy looked at him in silence, as if weighing his words. Finally he licked his lips, "You're not my leader, Spot. I don't have to tell ya nuttin."

Ice cold. Honest. Foolish.

The leader of Brooklyn snarled as he slammed the other back against the wall, so hard the latter's head slammed into the concrete. "You're in MY territory, boi."

"Its none of your business!" Race gave him a shove that sent him stumbling, "You've no right to order me around!"

"You've no right to be in my city, then."

It was spoken so soft Race had to pause and ask in a barely audible voice, "What?"

"Im kickin ya out. Get out of Brooklyn, Higgins. Now." Spot's eyes were solid and cold, every word laced with hate. "We don't house betrayers 'ere."

There was a soft span of complete and utter silence between the two before Race turned on his heel, and before he even knew what he was saying, only knowing it would destroy the fragile friendship they had managed to cling to, he snapped a sharp, "What are you gonna do, make me?"

Never before had Spot felt such anger, such hate. With a cry of rage he flew forward, not even having time to pull his cane before he was on the other, punching, tearing. He had no idea what he was doing, he only felt the desire to rip the other limb from limb.

Hurt him like he had been hurt.

Tear him apart as he had been torn.

Make him pay for the lonely nights of tears, the solitude, the utter hopelessness of not knowing whether or not his best friend was dead or alive. Not knowing whether he still cared.

Finally Racetrack had managed enough strength to fight back, and the two were locked in a duel, rolling across the ground, snarling like animals. Neither were aware of the onlookers, the small newsies who ran around spreading the news. There was nothing but each other.

Spot jerked back when one of Race's fists got lucky, slamming into his jaw with enough force for a crack to be heard. Race froze, horrified at what he had done, but that moment was enough for Spot to right hook him, sending him flying against the ground, into a light post.

"GET OUT, HIGGINS! NOW!"

Race got to his feet, holding his jaw. Blood dripped from a cut on his cheek and he stared at his red fingers a moment before a sigh ran through his body head to feet, and he met his ex-friend's stony gaze with one of his own.

"You don't have to worry, _Conlon_."

Not 'Spot'. Never 'Spot' again.

"Im goin." He turned without another word, limping his way past the crowd that had gathered, head held high. He had fought with the leader of Brooklyn, had fought with him, and nearly won. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

But if that was true, why did he feel so empty inside?

Spot watched him go without a change in expression. He wiped some blood from his lips and turned to head back to his boys when something on the ground caught his eye. A sharp look toward the onlookers had them scrambling to get away and when it was clear he leaned down and picked it up, wiping the dirt off of it.

Race's pocket watch.

He knew what he should have done, he should have pitched it into the river, or better yet...Sold it. Heh, there was an idea, sell it and lean back with the profits. It was a nice watch, real gold with a matching chain. The outside was carved, as was the pearl and silver inside.

But he couldn't do it.

He knew how much it meant to the other, had listened during the night when Race thought everyone was asleep, whispering as he held it. The only link to his past, the only clue he had to what he could no longer remember.

No matter how hard he tried, Spot couldn't work up the courage to do any of those things. So instead, he slipped it into his shirt pocket and stuffed his hands into his pant ones. It was starting to drizzle and he had to get back, get his boys inside.

No use worrying about Race. He would get out of Brooklyn, go back to Manhattan where he would be coddled over, set up in a bed and made a hero. A betrayer treated like a king.

Was there anything more sickening?

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

It was pouring.

The rain was so thick he couldn't see ten feet in front of him. Sure, he knew Brooklyn like the back of his hand, but for Race, finding the bridge was like finding a needle in a haystack. One wrong turn and he could miss the crossing entirely and take a trip into the river.

He had long since transferred the voucher to a hidden pocket sewn into his shirt, held away from the rain. He had to keep that safe, had to. Even if he never exchanged it for the money, he had to keep it.

To remember.

Rubbing at his eyes he stumbled into a nearby alley, moving all the way to the back where a slight half-roof would keep the rain from getting to him. Mostly. Huddled in his wet clothes he crossed his arm and tried to stop shivering.

He couldn't go back to Manhattan. No doubt someone in the mob had recognized him, he was always there after all, and that would be the first place they'd look. Especially after word got around of the fight and Spot's order.

_"Im kickin ya out. Get out of Brooklyn, Higgins. Now." _

He bowed his head, rain water dripping off the end of his bangs, making them stick stubbornly to his forehead. To kick him out of Brooklyn...Who did Spot think he was!

The leader.

He wrapped his arms tighter and scooted all the way to the back, sitting down in a corner. He wasn't a Brooklyn newsie, Spot had no right to kick him out. He wasn't one of his men.

But he had been.

"Dang it." He hissed, reaching for his pocket-watch. He needed something familiar, something that would take his mind off Spot, something that would help him think.

His hand grasped nothing.

Sitting bolt upright, the Italian boy shivered for another reason than the cold. His watch...his watch...He must have dropped it during the fight...Moaning his grief he fell back, clutching at his hair. Anyone could have it, they would sell it, he would never see it again.

And it was all HIS fault.

"Conlon." He hissed, "You're gonna pay for this. Mark my words, you'll pay for this."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Uh-oh...there we go! Angst and action! The plot picks up now.

Tell me what you think by using that little button on the bottom left that says 'submit review'. THANX!


	4. Orders

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter four: Orders

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The Brooklyn newsies looked up in surprise as the doors to their home slammed open and Spot stalked in, a flash of lightning illuminating his form. Mud clung to his legs, and over his chest. A cut, most likely caused by the rolling on the ground had slit his upper sleeve, some blood staining the fabric.

His jaw had already bruised slightly on one side and he ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth its run-away strands. Red stood up slowly from his seat, the only one brave enough to ask what had happened. But he didn't get a chance to.

"Listen up." Spot snapped, standing in front of them all. "Starting now, if any of ya catch Racetrack Higgins on our turf again, you're to soak him. Ya got it?"

A murmur ran through the newsies, a few exchanging shocked glances. But all of them nodded, loyal to their leader. They would soak Race, but most of them would hesitate about it. And Spot knew that, too.

"If you refuse to.." He looked around with a glare, "Then you're gonna get soaked yourself, personally, by _me_."

That got them to pay attention.

Red pulled a chair out for him, and the leader collapsed into it, tossing back the glass of brandy the elder handed him. It ran down his throat, soothed him, took away the pain; both emotionally and physically. Without a word he held it out for another shot.

"What happened?" Red asked calmly as he filled it back up.

"Nuttin." Another re-fill.

His eyebrow raised, Red backed off a bit. He knew Spot would tell him, but in his own good time. Right now, what the youth needed was to get good and drunk, and then...

Then he would know what had happened to the unshakable, yet shaken, Spot Conlon.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Hey, Jack." Specs called as he tugged his shirt on over his head, "Race didn't come back last night, did he?"

"Naw." Cowboy was just finishing up shaving, "Must have gotten waylaid cause of the storm. Ya know him, got his face into the cards all day."

"Yeah," Mush had snagged an early copy of the paper and was leaned back in his seat, reading it as he sipped at some water. "Hey, look at this!" He exclaimed suddenly, gaining the attention of the whole house as he read.

"_The Sheepshead races was in an uproar yesterday afternoon as a sole better won against the house, betting on a young stallion who was favored to lose against the prized_...yadda yadda...oh, here we are..._The award would be a few hundred at least_...woah..." He grinned, "Aint that a prize?"

The rest of them laughed and joked around as they waited for the other to find his spot and continue reading. His eyes scanned down a little and then with a shocked cry, he began to choke on his water, hacking it up as he jumped from his chair.

"NO WAY!"

"What? What?" Jack yelled, snatching the paper from the coughing kid and reading to himself. His eyes shot wide open and he crossed himself with shaking hands. "Mary mother of God..."The rest of the house jumped toward the newspaper, wanting to know exactly what had happened, but Cowboy just waved them off and fell into a chair, still trembling. Skittery slapped his face with the back of his hand, "Oi, Jack! Tell us, what's the matta!"

Jack had to take a few deep breaths as he looked back down at the paper he held. "_The winner of this glorious prize, is rumored to be a young newsie from Manhattan. Witnesses report that he was a frequent visitor who went by the name...Racetrack_."

The newsboys lodging house was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Then it exploded into utter craziness.

Mush and Jack could only watch their cheering comrades with equal looks of concern on their faces. They were the only ones who had read farther down, the only ones who knew what the rest of the article reported.

_'However, the whereabouts of such an extraordinary boy are a mystery after a mob of hundreds chased him into the very heart of Brooklyn. It is unclear whether or not he was killed and the voucher stolen, but as no one has yet to come claim the prize, there is a good chance he is still on the run. More on this story as it develops...'_

Was Race okay? Had they gotten him? Was he lying in a gutter even now? Was he hanging low just in case? There was only one thing to do. "Mush...?"

"Yeah, Jack?" He murmurred, barely able to be heard above the partying newsies.

"Go to Brooklyn, ask Spot what he's heard."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Mush was not getting into Brooklyn.

"I don't understand!" He was seething as two tall newsies blocked his way over the bridge. "What the heck is going on? I just want to talk to Spot!"

"We have orders to let no Manhattan newsie over this bridge, and we'll follow them."

"But WHY!"

One of the other's eyes twitched, he was getting irritated. "We do not have to-"

"Because Spot is in a bad mood today." A new voice interjected and over the bridge came a friendly face. Curly chocolate brown hair and eyes to match, he was a short little thing, but as Spot could assure you, big things came in small packages.

"Shorty!" Mush greeted with a slight smile. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"Likewise." He smiled, shaking the other's hand. "What can I do for ya, Mush? I cant let ya over the bridge, Spot is in a slight...well, ya know."

"No, I don't know!" He muttered angrily, "I don't know anything except I came here to ask your leader a question and I find out he blocked the bridge!"

Shorty's eyebrow raised, "Ya mean Race hasn't said anything? Spot came home torn up and yelling at us to soak Race if he so much saw him take a step onto Brooklyn land."

Mush blinked and frowned, slightly worried now. "Shorty...Race never came home last night. That's why im here, to ask if you all had seen him. And cause of this." He held the newspaper out for the other, the part about the races circled with a pen.

Shorty took it from his hand, scanning it quickly before letting loose a shocked whistle. "Forget orders, I think Spot would want to see this one. Come on." He took Mush's arm and led him past the guards, who bristled but made no move to stop them.

"You mean he hasn't seen it yet?" Mush's eyes darted around as a peculiar feeling washed over him. He felt like he was being watched. "Shorty..."

"Just stay close." He murmurred out of the corner of his mouth before grinning a little, "Yeah, our papes come out later than yours, member?"

No, Mush didn't remember. He doubted he had even known about it, after all Brooklyn was Brooklyn and if you didn't live there, you really didn't know all that much. It was a rule. He followed Shorty to the docks, but hadn't even placed a foot on the opposite side before a ring of men surrounded them and Mush was jostled around, torn away from his guide and forced to his knees.

"Hey!" Shorty exclaimed, "Wait a second, he has something Spot needs to-"

That was all Mush heard from the other and he visibly paled. Oh god, what was he going to do? He was in Brooklyn, he had no idea what he was doing, what THEY were doing. He wasn't armed, didn't have anything on him except for a few measly cents and the paper.

"What are you doing here?" A soft and lethal voice sent a shiver up Mush's spine as he looked to where Spot was sitting, arms crossed and eyes cold and dead. He was tapping his cane against the ground lightly, not a fleck of warmth in his gaze.

_"Spot is in a slight...well, ya know."_

He certainly knew now.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Liked it? Hated it? Don't care, either way? Use that nifty button in the left hand corner to leave me a review. And it doesn't matter if you have an account or not.


	5. Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter five: Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

**_(( Ha! I updated again for you guys!)) _**

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Mush slammed onto the ground so hard a little moan slipped past his lips, looking up as Spot stood over him, cane held in one hand, the other clenched into a fist. He looked murderous, beyond angry, seething in rage.

There were many facets known as Spot Conlon. There was 'Spot' the lovable kid who joked around and played with his men, there was 'Spot Conlon' who was a little rougher, a little more shaven, and then there was 'Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn', a machine who killed any and all who bothered him, tore them apart mercilessly, never discriminating.

This was Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn.

There was only one thing for the Manhattan boy to do, and that was beg. To get on his knees and grovel. He knew it, the men around him knew it. Spot knew it. But he wasn't going to stoop that low. He wasn't a dog, so he wasn't going to act like one.

To the amazement of everyone there, Mush got back on his feet and faced the enraged youth. He spread his arms, head held high. "You need an outlet, Spot? Come on then." He couldn't help the fear that crossed his mind, but he locked it away.

He might get killed, but he'd go out like a fighter.

Some of the Brooklyn boys averted their eyes when Spot came at Mush, cane held back to strike. Talk big they would, but watch as their friend get splattered they would not. None of them were brave enough to go at Spot when he was like this, Shorty had already paid for it.

Ducking under the first blow, Mush slid backwards, dropping down on the docks as he spun, managing to trip the other before the cane slammed onto the ground next to his head. It made him pause a moment, realizing this was no mere fight.

This was an actual _fight_.

"Spot!" A sharp voice rang over the crowd, "SPOT!"

The cinnamon haired teen didn't even hear him, intent on trying to smash Mush's head like a watermelon, or at least inflict bodily harm. The newsies were parting quickly, some of them because they feared for Mush, the others because what was heading toward them was truly frightening.

Red looked like some demon, sweeping across the ground with his eyes ablaze, crimson hair sparking in the sun. He had on a pair of dark pants, with a shirt thrown on, but unbuttoned so that it swept away from his chest as he stormed toward the brawl.

No one there could ever recall a time when he had looked more angry.

"MATTHEW CHRISTOPHER CONLON!" He yelled, literally picking the other up by his collar, dangling their leader off the ground, eyes locked. "STOP THIS RIGHT _NOW_!"

Mush scrambled to his feet, melting into the crowd of Brooklyn newsies. He didn't want to be in the middle of THAT, that was for sure. He wasn't a sissy, he had proved that, but those two were in a whole different league. He expected Spot to calm, to slowly come back to himself.

He never expected him to hit Red.

The elder's head snapped back, blood blossoming from his split lip. His eyes wide he dropped Spot back to the ground, his fingertips touching the cut gingerly. They came away crimson and he stared hard at his leader.

Spot was looking horrified at his hands, as if he had never seen them before. "Im...sorry...Red..I-I..."

The sound of a slap echoed across the water and Spot staggered, holding his brightly red cheek in alarm. A punch he could have handled, a kick he could have dealt with. But a slap? A slap was more personal, more degrading.

It brought him off his high pedestal in a heartbeat.

"Come on, Mush." He motioned to the Manhattan newsie, drawing him from the crowd. "I'll listen to you."

Spot gulped as Red turned his back, and without a glance back or a word, left him standing there. Lost, confused, and so very, very alone.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Race coughed as he pulled himself to his feet. He felt like he was walking on a cloud, his mind was foggy and he could barely feel the ground under his feet. What a perfect time for him to get sick.

Then again, he had stayed out all night in the pouring rain.

Not like he had had a choice in that though.

He was still in a state of suspended shock over the events that had led him this far; the race, the mob, his fight with Spot...He truly regretted that, truly regretted provoking him, truly regretted pushing the younger to a frenzy to which there was no good end.

He had known what would happen, had known it deep down in the back of his mind. He knew he would have to pay the price, but to get kicked out of Brooklyn...He would've liked it better if Spot had just killed him.

Brooklyn was his home. Even if he lived in Manhattan, Brooklyn was where his heart had and always would lay.

Where Mr. Higgins lay.

Where Racetrack lay.

How could he just leave all that behind? How could he stand on the edge of Manhattan and look over, the Sheepshead in clear view...and not go there? Not walk the track as he had done as a child, spend time with the horses?

How could he lose the only thing that kept him living?

The sound of the betting, the smell of the freshly turned dirt, the sight of the horses giving it their all as they partook in the greatest sport down to man. He had wanted to grow up and ride across the finish line, to sit on the back of Racetrack, at least once.

He had wanted so much.

And got none of it.

Race was so preoccupied in his thoughts he didn't realize he had walked out of the alley until the sunlight hit him hard on his face, blinding him. He staggered backwards, trying to see, when a voice came from behind him.

"Racetrack Higgins."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"I see." Red sighed as he tapped the newspaper against the side of his leg. "If I said I understood it'd be a lie. I have yet to find out what happened between Spot and Race the other night."

Mush looked up from where he was sitting, "All I know is Shorty said Spot came home torn up, and Race didn't come home at all!" It was clear what he thought had happened.

The ex-leader shook his head, "No, no. If Spot had killed him he would have just told us when he came back. You forget, he's straightforward about all that stuff."

The youth mumbled under his breath, "What am I supposed to think then? Jack is worried sick, we all are. The last place Race needs to be is in Brooklyn, what with you all out for him, and that mob still searching, he has no where to hide!"

Red shook his head then, "I don't think he's still here. That would be suicide, you're right. Race isn't that stupid."

But he didn't sound so sure.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Race spun, eyes widened as a hand shot out and clasped over his mouth, dragging him back into the darkness, an arm around his chest keeping him from fighting back. He did anyway, striking out as he tried to snap at the hand.

He wasn't going down like this- HE WASN'T.

He swung his arms, hitting the other in the face with his elbow by pure luck. Aha! Serves them right, he smirked a little as he tried to tear free. He was still a Brooklyn boy, he had learned to fight on the streets.

"Ow!" His captor cried, "RACE, ITS ME!"

Race slowed, his mind recognizing the voice finally. He let himself get dragged and then spun on his heel, "What are YOU doing here!"

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

booyah! I liked some of this chapter. . now, since I updated twice for you guys, I want reviews! Use the nifty button on the bottom left that says 'submit review' and you don't have to have an account either!


	6. Spot’s lost it

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter six: Spot's lost it

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

**(I...cracked...I updated again. -sob-)**

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"What do you mean!" The other cried, staggering against the wall, holding his face. "God...I think you broke my nose!" Strands of ebony fell over his pain-filled blue eyes as he glared at Race.

"You wouldn't be talking that clearly if I had." He pointed out, but he came forward to check, just in case."What are you doing here, Ace? This aint de Bronx."

"No kiddin." He muttered, pulling his hands away from his face slowly. His nose didn't look broken, but the Manhattan newsie sure did a number on it. "People in my city usually don't attack me when I try ta help them."

Race resisted the urge to whap the elder up side his head. Ace would be the current leader of the Bronx, a nice guy who would pop up wherever and whenever you least expected him to. Only a few of them had actually seen Ace inside his _own_ territory.

You see, the Bronx was slightly different than everywhere else. Instead of the leadership being won, it was passed through blood to blood. Ace had inherited it from his elder brother, so there was really no concern about someone rising up and taking control while he was gone.

It just wasn't done that way.

"Well I wouldn't have attacked you if you hadn't grabbed me like that." He defended himself, arms crossed. "And that's twice you've skipped my question. What are you doin here?"

"Sheesh, are you sure its not-"

"Ace." His voice was quiet, but it carried.

The other sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was better dressed than most newsies, mainly because he had come from a wealthy family. He always had clean clothes, a place to stay, and therefore, so did the Bronx newsies.

Ace always took care of his boys.

But Race wasn't one of his boys, and he wanted to know what was up. Why he had come to help him, how he had even known something was wrong.

"Look...I got a few messages this mornin'."

_Messages? _

"I don't quite think you understand what you've gotten yourself into, Racetrack." Ace pulled a newspaper clipping from his pocket and held it up. It was the Sheepshead article, of course. "This is going to get you killed." He fumbled for the other pocket, "But in the off case in which that doesn't, this will."

Race's heart just about stopped. He knew that handwriting, had helped develop that curling swirl. "Spot..." He whispered. That was a message from Spot, he knew it.

Just like he knew it was nothing good.

Even before he saw the look on the other's face.

"Yes, Spot." Ace bit out, eyes flashing angry fire. "Spot who just closed his territory to anyone not from Brooklyn."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The leader of Brooklyn leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as Red came storming into the room like he knew he would, demanding to talk to him, like he knew he would.

Spot denied.

On cue, the elder began to DEMAND that he change his mind, that he was making a mistake, one the would cost them all dearly. He was just a child, what did he know?

Spot had him thrown out.

"What do you think you are DOING! You HAVE to stop this!" Red struggled against the arms that held him, "You don't UNDERSTAND what happened all those years ago!"

Yeah, right, like that was the whole reason why he was doing this.

"Oh?" He rolled his eyes, "And you do?"

"YES!"

This made him pause, his mind clearing enough for him to think this out. Red knew...Red knew why Race had left, he could tell him, once and for all...But then the anger gripped him and his fingers tightened around his cane.

He knew. And never told him.

"Well...What happened then?" He drawled, forcing the other into a corner.

Red froze, like the youth knew he would. Spot had him, and all he had to do now...was finish it. "I knew you would say anything to get out of this. Take him away."

"I am NOT lying to you, kid! Its you! You're the one who is lying. You're lying to yourself right now!" He managed to break one arm free, but Spot's next words stunned him so much he offered no resistance as they recaptured him. He couldn't have just heard Spot right.

But he had.

"Take him to the bridge." It was softly spoken, but not without force.

"You...You're...throwing me out...?"

"That's right."

His voice was ice cold, left no room for arguments. Red could only stare in horror as he was led away, but before the door closed behind him he looked back, "I wont tell you what you will not hear, but I will tell you this. For the first time in my life, Matthew, im actually ashamed of you."

Spot stared at him, almost calling him back, almost changing his mind. But he couldn't do that, he was the leader, dangit! He did NOT make orders and then change them on a whim! Red may have been a father to him, but he was Spot Conlon. He needed no father, he needed no family.

He needed no one.

"Kid...please..."

"GET HIM OUT OF MY SIGHT!" He screamed, on his feet, eyes flaming in anger that didn't calm until the door was shut solidly behind him and he couldn't see Red anymore.

Couldn't see those bright eyes looking at him, not in contempt or in anger...

But in sadness.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"You...have got to be kidding me!" Race could only stare at the message he held with barely contained horror. "That kid...He...He's lost it!"

Ace shrugged a little, "That's the word, to tell you the truth. Some are saying Spot has finally cracked somehow. I mean, he's always been a little..." He waved his hand around to emphasize what he had no words for, "But this is just nuts."

Race seemed to stare at him for a moment, eyes wide. "You got this message yourself, didn't you? Back home in de Bronx?"

The leader nodded with a smile, already knowing where this was headed.

"And you came here to show me?"

He wagged his finger, "I came here to help you."

He crossed his arms, "But you already knew about the ban before you stepped foot in Brooklyn, yes?"

Ace laughed, "Yes, yes."

The Manhattan newsie stared at him, his mouth falling open a bit. "You knew?"

"Yes, a million times, yes I already knew!"

"THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE!"

Ace just rolled his eyes, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Someone has to make sure you and Spot make up, no? I mean, even though you left, he cant stay mad at you for forever, right?"

Race didn't even want to know how this man knew about that.

Sometimes it was better to just go with the flow, in and out with the tide, rolling with the punches...And this was a good sometime. "All right..." Race sighed a little, "What do you suppose we do?"

Ace just grinned at him, "How should I know?"

Then again...sometimes it was better to quit while you were still ahead.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

ahaha, now dat I have done this for you all, show me how much you love me.

Review time! Use da nifty button on the bottom left that says 'submit review' and leave me a note! TA!


	7. Leadah

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter seven: Leadah

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Red walked down the streets of Manhattan, hands in his pockets. His mind was a flurry of thoughts, swirling over his head, in and out. Memories of when Spot was a child, memories of a forgotten time.. Briefly he wondered what had went wrong, what he had done.

The truth was, he hadn't done anything wrong. He had raised the little hellion to the best of his ability, and even though Spot was being a royal you know what, there was pain there, deep in his eyes. Too deep for anyone else to see, too hidden.

But he was slipping, losing grip fast. His defenses were falling, either that or his boys knew him better than Spot could ever imagine. Because they knew something was wrong.

_"Im sorry, Reddy." Docks murmurred as they stood on the edge of the bridge, "Spot just...isn't himself."_

_"No kiddin." Red muttered, running a hand through his hair, "I want you to watch him for me, all right?" _

_The other's eyebrows shot up, "Woah, woah, BACK UP. You want...me to spy...on Spot Conlon! What if he catches me!" _

_"Well, you do have dat lovable personality. Use it." __He grinned, turning to leave. It really didn't bother him that he had been kicked out of Brooklyn, it bothered him because he couldn't keep an eye on Spot._

_"Hey, Leadah?" _

_Red froze, "Don't call me dat, Docks." _

_Docks shook his head, "Right now, you're the only leadah Brooklyn has. What's back there," He jerked a finger behind him, "aint Spot." _

_"No..." He shook his head, "It's just...something I should have taken care of a long time ago, that's all. Its my fault all this is happening, that he is like this." _

_"Is it because of Race leavin heah?" _

_The elder turned a little, eyebrow raised. "You weren't here when dat happened, Docks. How do you know?" _

_The newsie grinned, "Like you said, I have my loveable personality." His face fell though, a split second later, "Just go, all right? I'll keep an eye on Spot for ya."_

_"How do you know about Race?" He asked again. _

_Docks shook his head, "Ill be your spy, Leadah, but I aint gonna tell you everything."_

Wasn't that just a good thought? A spy who wouldn't tell you everything?

But it was the best he could have done at the time, and...Looking back on it now, it wasn't that bad a call. Sure, Docks was a little slippery at times, but everyone was. And one thing was sure. He would spy on Spot for him, and even if he said he wouldn't, he would tell Red everything.

_"Ill be your spy, Leadah, but I aint gonna tell you everything."_

He was such a liar.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Hey, Race...Are you sure you're okay?" The Bronx leader asked for like the thirtieth time since they had met. "You really don't look good, man."

"Im fine!" The poker player snapped, "Im just tired, that's all!"

Yeah, tired, woozy, nauseous, and many other things that all pointed to the face he was _not _fine, but why would he let such a stupid thing stop him? He had to figure out what to do with Spot, had to find out what was going on in that midget's brain.

"You're shorter than he is!" Ace chuckled, and Race realized he must have said that last part out loud. "Really, Race, what is going on? I thought you two were friends!"

_'Yeah...I thought we were too.'_ The other thought as he leaned back against the wall. It would be dark soon, and that was when they would move, finding another place to stay. They couldn't keep in one place, that would only make it easier to find them.

"Race...?"

_"Race...?" _

"Drop it." Race snapped, arms crossed. He saw Ace's face fall and immediately regretted his harshness to the other. He hadn't really been the nicest of people ever since the leader had found him, and Ace _was _only trying to help...

But he was finding it quite hard to not think about Spot, and the way his mind was processing information- at a slower than normal rate- Spot was _all _he was going to be thinking about for a while yet.

_"Race...?" _

He heard the phantom voice in his head again and closed his eyes wearily, letting himself go, letting himself go back to a time in which he remembered little of his past, and nothing of his future. To a time where Brooklyn was secure under Red, and he...he didn't have a care in the world.

_Spot blinked down at him, poking his shoulder for nearly the eighth time. "What are you doin?" He asked, a large cap pulled low on his head. _

_Race yawned, hand coming up to protect his eyes from the sharp sun. "Im takin a nap, kid. What's it look like?" _

_Indeed he was, right underneath the docks, a few feet from where the water met the earth. It was cool down there, and did a fairly good job of giving him privacy and keeping the light from his eyes. Most of the time. _

_"It's the middle of da day, Race!" He whined, kneeling by his side. When he whined, his lower lip stuck out just a little, giving him a cute little pout. "Come on! Play wit me!" He gave the other another jab in the ribs. "RAAACEEEEEE!"_

_Race groaned as he jerked, mostly by instinct, to get away from the poking. "Im tired, Spot, go bother someone else!" He said it sharper than he intended, and far too accusing. _

_When he opened his eyes, the kid was gone. He should have gotten up then and there, to find the other and apologize, but he didn't. He just sighed happily and lowered his hat to block the rest of the sun. _

_He would find him later, he decided. After his nap._

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The Brooklyn lodging house was as quiet as the grave.

Soon after Red had been escorted out, the newsies began to come to the conclusion that they were going to either have to bite their tongues and wait it out, or they were going to be hurt, thrown out, or worse.

And most of them didn't wish to take such a risk.

"Where's Spot?" Docks asked as he came back from dropping Red off, his hands in his pockets. He shut the door behind him softly, walking in towards a group in the back corner.

"Sleepin." Flip answered as he bent to wrap another length of bandage around Shorty's upper arm, which was sporting a nice gash. Blood was clinging to his hands and as he wiped a strand of hair from his face, some smeared across his forehead.

"What happened?" He exclaimed, grabbing a seat so he could sit next to his best friend.

"I yelled at him." Shorty said it calmly, without the anger and fear that he was feeling entering his voice. "I shouldn't have done that, but he shouldn't have thrown Red out either."

"Quiet." that was from Flip, who gently tied the bandage off. "Wouldn't want him to hear ya, Shorts. Ya gotta stop gettin on his bad side, this is twice I've had ta bandage you up."

"Leadah said he is gonna try and take care of it on his end." Docks whispered, leaning so close their heads were almost touching. "Trust him, and stop causin trouble."

Shorty blinked wide-eyed at him, and it was due mostly to the title. However, he didn't need to ask to who he was referring to, that was all too clear at this point. He paused, and then nodded once. "All right."

Flip wiped his hands off on a towel. "Dat's good ta hear. Where is he getting dis help?"

Docks grinned, leaning back a bit. He crossed his arms and shut his mouth, eyebrow raised a bit. "Wouldn't you like ta know."

Instead of playing along, which is what would have happened in the past, Flip just met his comical gaze with a stern one. "I do, cause im tired of takin care of those who get on da bad side of Spot and his new knife."

Checkmate on that one.

Docks winced a bit, and let the forced cheerfulness fade from his face. He ran a hand through his hair, "Where else would he get help?"

No one needed to say it. The only place Red would find anyone willing to help out when Spot was being a royal pain in the behind...was Manhattan.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_okay, guys, this is the last one I have for right now- cause, well, I have to write the others/ -grin- shouldn't take TOO long. _

But now, use that nifty button and drop me a line. I get lots of reviews...and ill hurry and write faster.


	8. Nightmare

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter eight: Nightmare

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_Spot ran through Brooklyn as fast as his legs would carry him. Eyes wide in fear he sprinted toward the end of the street, skidding around the corner so fast his feet nearly came flying out from under him. _

_Something hit the back of his head and he stumbled, coming to one knee for about two seconds before he was up again, never once taking a look behind to see how close his attackers were. He didn't need to. _

_They were so close he could practically hear them breathing._

_A hand grabbed his upper arm and on instinct he twisted, kicking out in the hand's owner's general direction. Not even waiting to hear the cursing, he bolted, feet pounding the concrete._

_He was at the opposite end of Brooklyn, far from the lodging house and the help he desperately needed. If only Red was with him- he never got picked on with Red around. Being so small, being so different, wasn't always easy._

_And he was the leader's favorite._

_Without even realizing it, the kid had boxed himself into a dead end street with no way to go and no save haven in sight. Up ahead there was a small and narrow alley between two buildings, with what looked like a chain link fence at the end. _

_If he hurried..._

_Literally diving down the alley, he scrambled for a handhold on the fence as he jumped, clinging like a cat. One hand after the other, he scurried up, his hand grasping the top lip just as a hand grabbed a hold of his leg, jerking him hard._

_A yelp forced it way from his throat as he tried to lash out at the hand, but another jerk tore his hand free and he fell. He hit the ground with a cry, little body trembling as the three boys surrounded him, their mouths turned up into sneers. _

_"So, little runt...Thought you could get away, didn't you?" _

_Spot glared up at them, his silver-blue eyes narrowed in rage. "Don't call me dat!"_

_"Oh, does dat hoit ya feelings?" They laughed, as if he had no feelings to hurt. Like he was their play thing, their toy, and nothing more. "We're so SORRY!" The last word was emphasized with a brutal kid to his chest, that sent him rolling along the ground._

_They closed in on him and he panicked, jumping to his feet and backing up to the wall. Red...Where was he? He had always shown up before when Spot needed him...Why was now any different? _

_"Red..." He murmurred, horrified now. "Red...!"_

_"Stop dat." They growled, circling him like sharks , "He cant heah ya, and he aint gonna come and save ya. Not dis time."_

_Wasn't coming? Red wasn't coming? But why? He let out a shriek when the first fist closed in, and then another and another. His whimpers for Red grew to yells, cries of fear. And then they changed, to another name, another friend._

_Another hope that would never come._

"RACE!"

Sweat beading his brow, Spot bolted up in the bed, chest heaving and silver-blue eyes wide in shock. His hands trembled as he held them up to his face, washed in the moonlight. A nightmare. Something he hadn't had in a long time.

Running a hand through his hair, he pushed the tangled blanket off of him and moved to the window, hands braced lightly on the sill. He pushed it open and let the gentle wind of the night wash over him.

He remembered that day. It had started off as just another day, sell some papers in the morning, get some training in before lunch, and then he would have some time to himself before dinner and the late night edition, that Red sometimes would let him sell.

And to think, all that trouble had started with just one question.

_"What are you doin?" _

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"So I see." Jack nodded, sighing. "What a mess this all is."

Red hummed his agreement, collapsed in a chair with a glass of whiskey in one hand. He was about to say more when the door to the room opened and someone poked their head in.

"You haven't heard the half of it, Jack." It was Dutchy, his face scrunched up in some unreadable expression. "Guess who is waiting in the main room for ya?"

Something told him the answer was not 'Spot.' "Who?"

"Munch, co-leadah of da Bronx."

Jack's eyebrows flew up in surprise, and even Red sat up straight in his chair. "Munch?"

He nodded, "Says he needs to speak to ya, right this minute. Its important."

Of course it was. Munch usually stayed in the Bronx, unless it was something life-shattering, and then you might get him to leave his precious hometown. Usually Ace did the running around, he _was_ the leader in any case.

They got to their feet and Dutchy vanished from the doorway. Exchanging shocked glances, they walked out of the side room and down the hall, pushing the door to the main downstairs with a few clues as to what would expect.

A fuming and worried Bronx newsie was not on that list.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Race?" Ace shook the other newsie, alarmed when he didn't get an answer. "Race?" He tried, a little louder, a little more force to his shaking, "Racetrack, answer me!"

He didn't get one. Race was slumped against the wall, his eyes closed and breathing shallow. His face was pale white, his cheeks flushed slightly. Hand trembling, Ace laid his hand on the other's forehead, and immediately started to curse in Italian.

Race was sick. Really sick.

Pulling him into his arms as much as he could, Ace got to his feet, biting his lip as he tried to balance the newsie's weight. He had to get him to a doctor, but where could he go in Brooklyn without Spot finding out about it? He had no idea, and that only made the situation worse. He wasn't a stranger to Brooklyn, but he didn't know everything.

"What a great time for you to be unconscious, Race." He snarled, biting his lip and looked toward the dark sky. "God...I need some help here...anyone would do!"

Footsteps.

Spinning, Ace's heart leapt. Maybe it was some newsie who would know where he could get help, maybe it was Red. Yeah, that would be really good. Red could help them out, he could-

"What do we have here?"

It wasn't Red.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"WHAT is going on!" Munch nearly exploded the minute Jack was in view, his hands clenched at his sides.

Cowboy blinked, "Uh, what...?" He wasn't stupid, but he had no idea what the other was referring to. "Munch, what are you talking about?"

"Ace left foah Brooklyn dis mornin- and he hasn't come back!" He exclaimed, "Not a message, not anything!"

Red and Jack exchanged worried glances, feeling as if the world had just shattered around them. Another missing person, in Brooklyn. And with Spot having closed his territory, there was no way to get information.

No way, that is. But one.

"Ya know what." Red snarled, eyes flashing. "Dat's it. Enough is enough." He stomped toward the door, mind a jumbled mass of anger.

Jack looked at him, eyebrow raised, "Where are you goin?"

"Im gettin back in ta Brooklyn."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

ok! Maybe not as good as the previous ones, I wrote this when I wasn't feeling my best. The beginning turned out great, and kind of tapered off toward the end. -grin- oh well.

Now leave me a review using that nice button on the bottom left that says 'submit review' and it doesn't matter if you are logged in/have an account!


	9. Capture

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter nine: Capture

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_"What do we have here?"_

Ace's heart was in his throat and he gripped Race hard as he backed up, eyes never leaving the face of Mr. Owens, current owner of Sheepshead. He was a greedy man, not small by any means, and was known for cheating customers of their money.

The Bronx leader could bet anything he was also the one who had started that mob the other day at the track. This wasn't good. Not good at all. "Nuttin." He said calmly, hoping ignorance would get them through this. Maybe he didn't know who Race was. "What is a distinguished gentleman like yourself doing out here?"

"Cut the polite act and give me the kid." Owens snapped, taking a step toward them.

Well...it had been worth a shot at least.

On to Plan B.

"You really think im that stupid?" He asked as he took a sharp stab at Owen's knee, hearing it pop under his foot. "How about you cut the crap and call your men out!" He snapped as he shifted Race in his arms, and ran.

"AHH! GET THEM!" Owens shouted as he fell to his side on the concrete, clutching his knee in pain. "GET THEM!"

Men jumped off the surrounding rooftops, trying to cut Ace off before he could get out into the marketplace streets. But no one had ever said Ace wasn't fast. Dodging the first man, he leapt on top of a cart, kicking another man in the jaw.

A hand closed around his ankle and he stumbled, twisting his body around so Race was above him, protected. He hit the cart hard, a crack sounding as his arm was jammed between. He yelled out in shocked pain and kicked at the hand holding him.

Free, he half fell, half jumped off the cart and knew before he even tried, he wasn't going to be able to support Race with his newly broken arm. But that didn't stop him from trying. Ace Cardoni didn't give up.

He got a few more feet before they caught him.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Are you sure about this, Red?" David asked for the tenth time since Red had first started to put his plan into motion, wringing his hands, which were slightly stained a light gray. "I mean... it's a good idea...but what if he catches you?"

Red snorted, looking in the glass and turning so he could see himself. "Do you really think he would attack me, Davey?"

The silence that met his question made him turn around.

"...We're just worried, thats all." Jack said gently, "Spot...aint himself, Red. Its not fair to ask you to risk your life when we wont."

"Risk my life? Spot's my..well, he's my son. Jack, you should know he would never..." The ex-leader's voice faded out. His heart was telling him one thing, his mind was telling him another. "He wouldn't, all right. He wouldn't."

"If you say so, Red."

"Don't mock me, Blink." Red snarled, his anger threatening to come to the top. "You don't know him like I do. Don't act like you do."

Blink held up his hands, leaning back in his chair. "Sorry, sorry. But I agree with Jack. You shouldn't be going alone, no matter what. Take someone with you."

"I'll go. I need to go." This was from Munch, who was in the back, not at all pleased with what little information the others had been able to give him. His eyes were shards of ice, piercing through them.

"No, you need to go back to Bronx. Without Ace there, you're leader." Jack wasn't saying anything the other didn't already know, but it needed to be said. Munch needed to be there; Bronx couldn't go without a leader. "...I'm goin."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Spot was in no mood to listen to his newsies.

That was the first thing that the other noticed when their leader had come down to eat. He didn't look at them, except to glare, he didn't talk to them, except to yell. When Spot Conlon, who, by far wasn't as hypocritical and mean to his men as many made him out to be, lashed out silently as his boys...

There was a serious problem.

One would think the attacking of said newsies would have been enough to classify a serious problem, but that wasn't true. Spot had always been physical, as was most, if not nearly all, of Brooklyn itself. They had been confused and hurt at the attacks, but they understood them.

This they didn't understand. Not at all.

"Im goin out." Spot snapped when he had finished eating, grabbing his hat and plopping it on his head. "Dis place bettah be neat when I get back."

He slammed the door behind him as Shorty and Docks exchanged identical looks of an unreadable emotion. "Well..." Shorty said carefully, picking up a plate. "...Guess its time to start cleanin, eh?"

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Brooklyn always could make him feel better. No matter what happened, if he could walk down his streets, it wasn't that bad. He would travel the same route over and over again, from the lodging house, to the church steps, to his bridge, to...

Pausing, Spot sighed, a soft breath easing from his lips. It was funny how much could change in so little a time. Years ago he had lived in a slum, with a father who hated him, and a mother who didn't even know he existed. His sister had been the one to convince him he needed to go on with his life. To excel past their parents.

But how does one _do_ that, exactly?

Staring down his old street, Spot felt his anger rise up. Bending down swiftly, his fingers found a rock and he pitched it as far as he could. He didn't have quite enough strength to reach his old home, however, and he turned away, disgusted.

At himself...At them...Maybe a little bit of both.

_"Matthew, why don't you listen? Just listen for once! You cant live your life alone...It just doesn't work that way. You need friends, so they can help you, pull you through the rough times, keep you from falling. You cant do this alone. You just cant." Caroline pleaded with him, her eyes identical to his own. _

He hated those eyes.

"Stupid sistah. You don't know what you're talkin bout." Spot snapped, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. "I don't need anyone."

Not now. Not _ever. _

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Ace groaned when they tossed him into the cell, rolling over a few times before he stopped, clutching his arm to his chest. Eyes full of pain and fury, he moved to his knees, just as they slammed the door hard in his face.

Growling, he slid up against the wall, breathing harsh. Moving his arm he bit back a snarl as pain lanced up his entire left side. Carefully slipping out of his shirt, he tore at the material with his teeth, able to get a few decent sized strips from it before he threw it to the side.

Carefully maneuvering around - this was not a feat that should be tried with only one person - Ace fashioned himself a sling for his arm, making sure it wouldn't move too much. When he was satisfied, he got to his feet, wobbling a little unsteadily.

He had to get out of this cell.

Because they had Race.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

-sighs- im sorry you guys. School online sucks, and I had vacation...and then I finish this, and it sucks. Im sooo sorry. -hugs- please forgive me?


	10. Traitor

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter ten: Traitor

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"No."

Red sucked lightly at his front teeth, arms crossed. "Please?"

"No."

They had been like this for a little over ten minutes, him and Jack. The Brooklyn newsies that were sent to watch the bridge were holding up, knives in their hands. They wouldn't even budge for Red.

"Come on, boys, don't you know whats going on? We'se trying ta help!" Jack made an angry motion toward the heart of Brooklyn, "Your king has lost his mind and unless someone puts a stop to it, it'll just get worse."

Red cursed Jack then, low under his breath, too low to hear - as he watched the brooklynites curl their fingers a bit more tightly, more securely, around the hilt of their weapons. Enough was enough, he was Brooklyn, dangit, and he was getting into his city.

Everything changed. The way he held himself, the tone of his voice, the gleam in his eyes. The change was so fast, so rapid, one second he was standing there as Collin, and the next he was there as Red.

Stepping up to the closest newsie - he didnt even recognize him - he pressed on until he felt the blade of the knife up against his stomach, and only then did he stop, looking down at the other with eyes of smoky emerald green.

"Are you gonna kill me?" He asked calmly, reaching down and snagging the other's wrist, bringing it and the knife to his throat, laying the metal against his skin. "Slit my throat? Dump my body in da rivah like Spot no doubt told you to do?"

Jack took a half step forward as the other's eyes narrowed and he laid the knife more firmly against the elder's neck. "Don't threaten me."

"I wasn't threatening." Red jerked back, slipping to the ground and hooking his foot around the youth's ankle, jerking hard. By the time he fell with a yelp, the blade had switched hands and by the time they hit the ground...

The knife wasn't at Red's throat anymore.

"I wasn't threatening." Red repeated, a leg on either side of the newsie's waist, knife held up against his jugular firmly. "I was daring you." His eyebrow rose a little, "...Do you even know who I am?"

The other guards, who had been too shocked to move, leapt forward then, but Jack was there, and he stood between them, just as a warning. If they wanted the same...let them pass him. He was sure Red wouldn't mind the workout.

"No." The kid spat, eyes on fire. "Should I?"

"Probably." Red snorted, shrugging his shoulders. "Ya see, buddy, if I were anyone else in Brooklyn - you'd have been dead already. You better thank God you pulled this with me. Because I don't kill on a whim."

"Oh please!"

"Draft, shuddup." One of the other guards was staring at Red in a mix of horror and admiration. At least one of them realized who he was. Turning his gaze to Jack, he nodded. "Yah...you can go on through. No one'll bothah ya."

Red smirked down at Draft, ruffling his hair as he got to his feet and pocketed the knife. "There's another thing to be thankful for. Your friend is smarta den you, dat's foah sure." He held out his hand for the one still on the ground.

"Red Russiani, Ex-leadah of Brooklyn."

To his credit, Draft managed to shake his hand without appearing like he wanted to bolt.

Which was, of course, all he could think about doing.

But he never forgot that day.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

It was just his luck that Owens had some important business down at the track, because Race wasn't sure he could take another hit. His head was ringing, his throat felt swollen, making it hurt to really drink or eat anything.

If there had been something to drink or eat.

He wasn't sure how his fever was doing, and he wasn't sure if they had given him anything for it, because he didn't remember much, if any, of the few hours before his capture. He didn't know where Ace was, and didn't really care.

It was his own stupid fault for getting involved.

If he had just minded his own business, he might not be hurt...or dead...or captured like he was. But Race didn't have the time to worry about anyone else. He was too busy trying to get a hand free, twisting them behind his back, attempting to loosen the knots of the rope.

The chair dug hard into his back, and his arms protested the strain until he thought they were going to snap...But he still couldn't get even a hand free...and that's when it happened.

The door opened.

"Hello Race." A cold voice said, a dull thunk on the floor making the Italian's head snap up in shock. "...Care to tell me what you're doin heah?"

In his mind...Spot had never looked more deadly.

"Spot...Wha...What's goin on with you?" He cried, "I mean...Why have you been actin like dis. We've fought befoah...but..."

_Never like this. Never._

Spot's silver blue eyes narrowed as he stared at the one tied to the chair. "You don't get it do you? This isn't because of the fight! This is because you are a god-dammed traitor!"

"I...I don't understand..."

"Really?" Spot sneered, "Maybe this will jog your memory." He spun on his heel, leaving the room and slamming the door shut with a sharp bang.

_He took one last look around the room before he slipped quietly toward the door. He wanted to leave quickly, without having to look at what had clearly become his home, the boys in the bunks his family. _

_But he wasn't that lucky. _

_"Mmph..." Spot whispered in agitation, rolling over under his blanket, face twisted in pain. A nightmare, the kid had been getting those a lot lately._

_And Race knew he wouldn't cease them unless someone brought him out of it. He tried to leave, tried to turn away, but he couldn't do it. Spot was his little brother, in anything but blood, he couldn't do that. _

_Sitting on the edge of the bed he laid a hand on his shoulder, leaning over to brush a few strands of hair from his face. He sang quietly, too soft for anyone else to hear, yet loud enough for the words to take form, to drift into the child's dream, calming him. _

_It worked almost instantly, and then, laying a kiss on his forehead, he got to his feet and left, shutting the door behind him without a sound. Slipping into the night, he headed toward Manhattan...and a new life._

The young newsie felt like he had been slapped clear across the face. He hadn't thought, hadn't realized what his leaving like that would mean...

"Oh...god..."

Spot, leaning against the door just outside, snorted. "Don't sound so shocked. You had to have known what you did, dats why you hung out in Manhattan for all those years."

"I-I'm sorry, Spot!" Race cried, trying to get him to listen, to understand. To believe. "But you don't know what happened! I had no choice!"

Spot shrugged, as if the other could see him, "There's always a choice."

"Not this time- please, just listen!"

But the leader wasn't going to. "Where did he go?" He asked softly.

Race blinked at the door, confused and frantic. "...Where did who go...?"

"The person who cared, Higgins."

The sound of the lock slamming back into place seemed to echo forever in the air, ominous sounding to the young newsie, who could only stare at the door as he hear the tap-tap of Spot's cane get farther and farther away...and then just stop altogether.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

(Sorry for the delay guys, real life got in the way. -pout- and i kinda rushed this chapter...i wrote most of it at 5:30 this morning!)

Uh-oh... now what? -grins- they need to get out of there...somehow. But who will help them if not Spot? And what happened to Ace? Did he ever got out of there with his broken arm?

I guess you'll have to come back and see, wontcha? -smirk-


	11. Planning

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter eleven: Planning

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

**_Fans of 'For Brooklyn'. The third story is up, with one chapter so far. Just letting you all know. -grin- don't kill me?_**

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"STOP HIM!" An angry, adult voice made Spot's head jerk up in shock. He hadn't done anything! ...Had he? Honestly...his grip tightened around the cane at his side, but he loosened it upon realizing he was not the one being told to stop.

That was a first. Usually it _was _him.

Silver-blue eyes looked on curiously as a tall, dark haired teen wearing a large dark jacket, slid along the ground with a grace he found himself admiring, right ahead of the merchant he had taken the food from.

Leaping up, one handed, the stranger grabbed a hold of a shop's overhang, using it as leverage to get over a covered cart in his path, hitting the ground on the other side lightly, before taking off again.

_'He moves like liquid.'_ Spot realized in slight awe. The thief didn't so much as run as he _flowed_ across the ground, pausing at the corner to look back briefly, eyes half-lidded as he took a decent bite from the apple in his hand.

Before smirking and disappearing into the crowd.

And Spot would swear the other looked right at him.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

There was a reason why Ace was named Ace.

And it was not because he had a knack of getting out of cages.

Growling in frustration, the teen slammed his fists against the bars, eyes a touch wild and teeth biting hard on his bottom lip. What a mess this was. He had shown up to help his friend, and now he was behind bars, and Race was god-knows-where.

Letting his forehead touch the cold metal, his eyes flashed a deep blue, ice running through his veins. He knew what greed did to men, he knew what could happen if Race was left alone with that snake of a man, Owens, for too long.

And he would be dammed if he saw his friend broken.

Backing up, Ace took a look around the room again, eyes narrowed and calculating. There had to be a way to get out of this room. Everything had a weakness, you just had to recognize and find it.

Barren walls, a small cot, the barred door. Even if he could manage to find something to pick the lock with, there was no guarantee he could get the door open. He wasn't the most experienced lock picker, and the lock itself looked old.

However, old was good. Old was very good. Because there were ways to weaken it, until it broke or he could pull something loose. It was worth a shot at least. Rearing back, he gave an experimental kick to the door, close to the lock. That presented him with a throbbing foot, and he congratulated himself silently on his immense amount of wisdom.

But he wasn't about to give up. Not by a long shot.

Yes, there was a reason why Ace was named Ace.

And it was because no matter what the situation, no matter what was going on...Daniel Cardoni was always a step ahead. Even when you thought he was down, he always managed to surprise you.

He always had an ace up his sleeve.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"I assume there was a reason for that." Jack said dryly as Red finished off the apple, tossing the core over his shoulder, and pulling the brim of his cap down over his eyes. "Or do you just like havin middle-aged merchant men chasin ya down the street?"

The ex-leader chuckled, stretching his back and peering at Jack with sparkling emerald eyes. "You know me, Cowboy."

"Yes I do."

That had been why he asked.

"Of course dere was a reason." He shrugged, trying to relieve some of the tension in his muscles. He wasn't a kid anymore. He had to be more careful. However, after that, he said no more and just stared out at the open water, chin cradled in one hand.

"...And do I get ta know said reason?" Jack raised an eyebrow, leaning over a bit so he could see his friend better. "Or am I ta forevah remain in the dark?"

Smiling, the other gave him that wonderful shrug of his that meant everything and nothing. "Sometimes not knowing is a good thing, Francis Sullivan."

"And sometimes it hurts those we care about most, Collin Russiani."

It was silent for a moment, and then Red pulled his cap off, placing it on his lap as strands of his ebony hair fell into his eyes. Pursing his lips slightly, he looked at Jack from the corner of his eye and nodded.

"All right, Jack. You have me there. I'll tell you what im planning."

Satisfied now, the Manhattan leader sat up straight, all ready to listen to his friend, when Red jumped to his feet, smirking down at him with that annoying, cocky as ever, Brooklyn smirk.

"That is, you can see for yourself if you can keep up."

And for the second time in one day, Red Russiani had someone chasing him.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Spot sighed, leaning back to stare up at the starless and dreary sky. The moon was waxen and dull, sending no light, no warmth into his soul. It was just as he was deep inside, cold, and dead.

Now that Brooklyn was cut off, now that no outsider could dare step onto the bridge, now that all of that had happened...He no longer heard Red's soft voice, no longer heard Race laughing as he won yet another hand at poker. His land felt empty, his men meek and quiet.

And Race and Red...They had been Brooklyn boys, were Brooklyn boys. He had had no right to kick them out of their home...But he had anyway.

_"What do you think you are DOING! You HAVE to stop this!" _

Spot bit his lip, head bowing over his chest as his fingers gripped his hair, pulling on it so hard it hurt. How could he do this, what was wrong with him! His family, his friends...

Race.

He felt around in his pocket, frantically searching as he finally pulled the glittering watch in his hand. Pooling the chain into his cupped palm, running his fingers over the engraved cover, letting it soothe away his sorrow, much like Racetrack used to do.

He had to stop, but he didn't know how. He had made such a mess out of things, he had no idea nor clue where to start to fix it. Flipping the lid with his thumb, his eyes fell on something odd, something he had never noticed before.

The watch's hands were stuck at 11:58.

He frowned, realizing for the first time, that it had been this way even before it had landed in his possession. He could remember its frozen hands when he was a child. But what did that mean?

Hadn't Race's foster father died at noon?

Angry tears bit at his eyes, threatening to spill over and arch down his face in hot lines. He had been so cruel to the other boy, so ruthless and cold, a monster. He had sworn once to never end up like those he hated.

And he had become that which he hated most.

He had even turned his back when Race had needed him more then ever, leaving him there in that jail cell, dashing his hopes and betraying his trust. Spot had looked back only once, in time to see those eyes shatter into thousands of glittering pieces that could never be put back together.

"God, Red...I cant do this...I need your help...I've been such a fool.." One silver tear fell down his cheek, rolling across the skin before catching and holding, reflecting the dim light.

"Well...at least you've finally caught on."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Sorry about the delay you guys! School, ya know how that goes.

But how was the chapter?

And anyone venture to guess why the watch is stuck like that?

-doubts anyone will be close-

and do I have to ask who the person at the end of this chapter was?

-grins- make sure you all leave me a review!


	12. Explosion

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter twelve: Explosion

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

**_Dang. I wish this was the thirteenth chapter. That would have been interesting. -grin-_**

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"At least you've finally caught on."

Spot's head snapped up in shock, his eyes wide, voice a breathless whisper as he breathed the other's name. The one standing not ten feet away sounded like Red, talked like Red, but it certainly didn't look like Red.

The once vibrant crimson hair, his namesake...was ebony.

"I was testing a theory." The elder said with a slight smile, upon discovering what had horrified the other so.

"What...theory..?" He was in a state of shocked fascination. Of all the things that could have happened to him, the color change was not one he would have expected. And was that a mustache?!

"Whether or not you'd recognize me if I walked right in front of you like this."

Comprehension dawned. "That was you who stole the food!"

Red grinned, coming over to lean on the ledge. "You were watching me...but you didn't notice who it was. A lot on your mind, eh?"

Spot raised an eyebrow. Yes, that was a mustache...a few days stubble at most, but it looked good on Red, far better than it would on him, that was for sure. "I've been...busy."

"Ah, yes. Because kicking people out and isolating your territory is such hard work."

The leader of Brooklyn groaned, hiding his face with his hands. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it- ANY of it!"

Red had a proud smile on his face as he laid a hand on the other's shoulder. "I know you didn't, kid. But im not the one who deserves the apology."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

No one knew how he did.

Even he didn't know.

But somehow, by some maniac twist of fate, Ace was out of his cage, and searching desperately up and around the area for his friend. Holding his arm close to his chest, he ducked and slid, hiding behind crates, barely breathing so he would be able to hear if anyone came near.

Luck was with him for once, and no one stopped him. Another point came when he found a small room, locked heavily from the outside, and through which he could hear Italian cursing.

Lets see.

Italian. Check.

Cursing. Check.

"Race." He hissed outside the door, pressing himself up as high as he could, to see through the tiny opening. "Race, ya knucklehead getc- Wait...Why do you want to broil Spot's ... package ... over a fire and make him eat it?" His eyebrows shot up.

Pausing at the voice, Race stared up at him, shocked. He had nearly managed to get a hand free, but the movements had tightened the other and he was resorting to twisting all around to just get in a position where he could work at it.

He had been cursing fluently until he got it. He hadn't expected anyone to hear though.

And certainly not Ace.

In a second, as he stared into the Bronx leader's face, Race knew what he had to do. It was going to hurt them both, but it had to be done. Steel ran through his veins and he stood tall, every inch the Brooklyn kid he really was.

Brooklyn was known not only for their fighting skills, but also for the fact they could make even the calmest person angry at them for the remainder of their lives. It was to this Race drew on, because he had to hurt Ace, to save him.

It wasn't ten minutes later, that Race sat back on the ground, covering his face with his hands. He would be amazed if Ace even SPOKE to him again, never mind look at him civilly. He had been cruel, he had been mean, and he had smiled the entire time.

What kind of monster _was _he?

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Race was forced into a chair by the two men on either side of him, his shoulder's aching from where their fingers had dug into his flesh. He was tied in the front, but the rope that bound his hands together had rubbed his wrists raw. No one seemed to care of course.

A ring of guards surrounded him, knives glinting within easy reach if he had any valiant plans to escape. Like that was going to happen. His eyes were full of fire as Mr. Owens came through a door, hands in the pockets of his expensive suit.

His head slammed around with the first blow, striking the back of the seat with enough force to make him see stars. The sharp taste of copper filled his mouth and he gagged automatically, a few flecks of blood coating his lips.

The first hit, and he was already bleeding? This was sure going to go well.

"Where is it, you street rat?!" He talked big, but Race did note that he stayed just out of reach. Wise man, yet foolish at the same time. "Where's that voucher?!"

_'Ace has it, you idiot. I fooled you, fooled you all.'_ He couldn't keep the smirk off his face, and that earned him a few more punches that left his ears ringing. He blinked his eyes as Owens came forward a little more.

"Tell me where it is and we can let you go."

Race promptly spat blood on his designer suit.

This time, he saw more than just stars and heard more than just ringing. When he could see again, Owens had removed the spat-on jacket and, face livid, descended upon the other with a blade nearly the length of the newsie's forearm.

"I'll get it, boy. Ill get it- even if it means getting it over your dead body." He snarled, "Make no mistake, it will be mine...Every...last...cent..!"

Race's panicked mind shut down as the sharp edge glinted. He was going to die. Die here, with no one around to see. Would anyone know? Would anyone care? He didnt know.

However, he did know one thing. The one person he wanted to care, who he wanted to let know...was the one person who truly hated him.

"Spot..." He murmurred, eyes squeezing shut to block out death, block out everything.

And then the world exploded.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"This isn't right." Ace's foot stopped before it could even hit the edge of the bridge. He turned slightly, the lightening twilight illuminating his face. His eyes glinted as they landed on the Sheepshead racetrack, and the small cargo trailer in the far back where they were keeping Race.

A lot had been said, but that was something to think about at another time.

All he could think about was the last thing Race had said to him, and the way all that anger had faded away -just for an instant- to reveal his real thoughts on the matter.

_"Take this, Ace. Take it and run. Get into Manhattan as soon as you can, tell Jack what's goin on. He'll take care of it, im sure...Now go, and don't look back." _

How could he not look back? How could he leave, run away and leave his friend there, in their clutches? Who knew what they would do to the poor kid? It was life and death here, money or an innocent. He knew what Race had tried to do. But how could he leave him there?

He couldn't.

_'Sorry, Race. But you're more important then some stupid money.' _

He turned on his heel, pulling the cap low over his eyes as he ran back through the streets, back past the lodging house where he guessed Spot was sleeping even now, ignorant and pig-headed. His fingers clenched around the voucher in his pocket as he sprinted, eyes on his goal.

On where he knew Race was.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Dust was everywhere, clogging the air and making it hard to see, much less to breathe. Sharp pieces of wood and melted twisted pieces of metal rained down on the floor, all of them searing to the touch and sending even more heat to suffocate anyone still alive.

Race blinked his eyes open, moaning as his whole body ached. But he wasn't dead.

That was disappointing.

He had expected death, or at the very least serious harm. After all, the very last thing he had seen was half the wall come crashing towards him, and then nothing. Surely he would be more sore after that? He had expected all of that, blood, pain, broken bones.

He hadn't expected to open his eyes and come face to face with a chest.

A man's chest, to be exact. The firm muscles could be clearly seen through the half-open shirt, glinting and rippling in the dim lighting. At least whoever belonged to this chest was breathing, small intakes of pain-filled breaths. And it was then that the glint of something silver caught Race's eyes and he forgot how to think, how to breathe, his heart literally stopped cold.

He twisted his head upward in shock, half-registering that he was pinned on his back, half-registering that the person above him was apparently injured, half-registering that the fatal falling of the wall had landed upon his savior.

Half-registering that it was Spot.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

a little longer chapter, hehee...and for good reason.

Sorry it was a little choppy, and I know I skipped over what happened between Ace and Race. Use your imagination, people! Hah.

And...im sorry to say this story is almost over. -cry-

so, leave me a review and tell me whatcha think!


	13. The end

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter thirteen: The end

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_He twisted his head upward in shock, half-registering that he was pinned on his back, half-registering that the person above him was apparently injured, half-registering that the fatal falling of the wall had landed upon his savior. _

_Half-registering that it was Spot. _

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Spot." He breathed, voice raspy and hoarse. "Spot..."

Those silver blue eyes were so bright as they looked down and locked on his own, so bright, beautiful, and alive- as opposed to cold and dead as they had so often been lately. He felt Spot pulling on his wrists, slitting the ropes that bound him.

He wiggled his fingers to get feeling to return, but his attention was caught as Spot's lips twisted into a slight smirk.

"Thought id come...to see how you were doin, Race."

Race. Not 'Higgins' but 'Race'.

With a heartfelt cry, the Manhattan boy threw his now freed arms around the other's neck, tears streaming down his face. It was as if everything had swopped down upon him at once. Heartache, pain, loss, joy, love, relief...

But most of all...

"I'm so sorry, Spot! I am so, so, so sorry! I don't know what was wrong with me, I never should have said all that stuff to you!" He was rambling, "I should have explained why I left, I should have noticed how you were feeling sooner, there's absolutely nothing I can do-"

Spot placed a finger on his mouth to cut him off. "There is one thing you can do."

Already there was the sound of digging, people coming to the rescue. Race could hear Shorty, Docks, and the rest of Brooklyn over the sounds of rubble and he visibly relaxed.

"Name it and ill do it!"

The leader of Brooklyn smiled softly, a true smile. "Allow an idiot like me to beg for your forgiveness? I was so wrong, Race. You didn't deserve any of it and im sorry, so sorry it hurts. Please, Race, if it's the last thing I ever ask of you...Please forgive me."

It was a rare day when Spot Conlon stooped low enough to say 'Im sorry', but it was altogether another one when he begged for it. It was altogether NOT like him, that Race...Race...

Race was so shocked all he could do was nod.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Well, alls well that ends well, I guess."

Race snorted as he leaned back against the wall, letting Spot wrap up a cut on his leg. "You only say that cause you werent here when the room blew up, Ace."

"Of course not!" He laughed, a large bottle of something alcoholic in his hands. "Spot wouldn't have run to _my_ rescue!"

Spot smirked as he tied off the end of the bandage. "No, I wouldn't have."

"See there!" Ace pointed, making the whole group laugh. It felt good to do so, even if it were only for a little while. "Told you!"

Rolling his eyes, Race looked down at the leader of Brooklyn with a raised eyebrow. "By the way, Spot. What the heck happened back there? Who blew up the room?"

"Who else?" He answered easily. "There is only one kid around Brooklyn who would be stupid enough to get a hold of a bunch of explosives."

"Are you talking 'bout me again, Spot?" Shorty asked as he glided up, smirking. "Now, I know I'm amazing, but people are going to start getting the wrong idea if you keep fawning over me."

Spot opened his mouth to retort, but a hand clapped itself on his shoulder, and he turned his attention upward as Red stepped around them, a hat perched sideways on his head and shirt halfway unbuttoned.

Then back to Race as he made a sort of undignified squawking noise and his jaw dropped open. Spot's eyebrow rose a bit, confused, before he looked to where Race was staring, and saw Red talking to Shorty, who looked a little embarrassed.

Oh...

Chuckling, Spot waved his hand in front of Race's face. "Hello? Earth to Italiano."

"His hair..."

"Yup."

"Its black..."

"Yup."

"...Okay. Can I lay down?"

"Yup."

Race never had the chance to, because at that moment, there was a clattering of hooves, and the entire area around them was filled with police, their mounts snorting in the smoke filled air, and looking none too happy.

"Oh yeah...This is good." Ace muttered as the police surrounded them all, a ring of horses as a deputy came forward, his hat in his hands as a gesture of peace.

Peace or not, Spot had already pulled Race behind him. He inclined his head slightly and the man began to speak. "Do any of you children go by the name Racetrack?"

Race stiffened and his mouth slammed shut. He wasn't going to give himself up- no he was not. That was stupid, that was suicide, that was...

_"But never...never lose your name, Racetrack. Never lose your name."_

Exactly what he was going to do.

Stepping around Spot, he smiled gently, hand held out for the other to shake. "Yes sir. My name is Race." His eyes flickered with a newfound life, "Racetrack Higgins."

A murmur ran through the police. There weren't many people who had such a last name, in face there had only been one, at least in Brooklyn. "Higgins?" One asked again, to clarify.

"Yes sir, Higgins." Race grinned as the deputy shook his hand. "The only son of Arthur Higgins."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." One of the men crossed himself in a breathless whisper. "This kid owns Sheepshead? This...this...KID?!"

"Owns?" The newsie blinked, "But I thought Owens..."

"He's dead, son. Burned in the fire." The deputy ran a hand through his hair, flustered. "Usually that would mean the track is up for grabs, but your claim...if it is indeed truth...would be undeniable. You'd be a millionaire, kid."

A millionaire...?

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

In the end it was Race, Spot, and several officers alone in a large room. The table in front of them was covered in paperwork, and neither of the newsies were quite...relaxed to say the least, being where they were.

For near enough to an hour, Race hadn't stopped talking. For once, he told the whole story, without stopping, and without...improving the truth. Spot was struck speechless in his seat. Sure, Race didn't say everything, especially what had gone on between the two of them, but it wasn't hard for him to read between the lines.

He had really been wrong.

Officer Richard, the head deputy at the moment, sighed, shaking his head. Sure, it was a good story, but this wasn't a story contest. The million-dollar racetrack was up for grabs, and this was no joking matter.

"Its not good enough, we need proof."

Race gripped his watch so hard his knuckles were white.

"Spot..." He turned in his seat a bit, eyes flickering down to the other's leg.

Following his gaze, the leader of Brooklyn reached down and pulled out a small knife, slowly handing it over while the officers looked on in curiosity. Gripping the knife, Race brought it to the back of the gold, wedging it into the small groove between back and side, letting the tip slide against the nick that had already been there.

Ignoring the sharp exclamation that came from Spot, he pulled the knife sharply, eyes squeezing shut in emotional agony as the back popped off, landing on the table with a soft pang. He took a deep breath, and then another before he got it together.

His watch...

Spot just stared at him, stunned, even as the gambler's fingers dug a small slip of paper from between the gears and handed it to the officers without a word. Race picked up the watch, gazing at it mournfully.

"Did you...?"

Race just nodded to the unfinished question. Yes, he had broken it.

"Can you...?"

This time it was a shake of his head. Negative. No, It couldn't be fixed, and it was all for that letter the officer's were reading, eyes widening with every line they crossed. It was a letter no one knew was there, a letter he had slid into the watch a minute before the only father he had ever known had died, halting the watch at that exact moment.

The letter from Mr. Higgins himself.

Officer Richard drew in a sharp breath, nodding as he folded the paper up carefully. "We'll... have to look over this. We'll send someone..." In a daze, he just wandered to the door and left, motioning to his men.

Race watched as the officers left, stunned and talking softly amongst themselves, with Richard clutching the letter like it was the last thing that mattered, his eyes glowing. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and motioned at the door.

"Let's go. Everyone's waitin for us."

Spot nodded, looking back at the watch with a raised eyebrow, as it lay on the top of the table, springs sort of sticking out of it at odd angles, but the gambler just shook his head, shutting the door behind them with a solid sense of finality.

In the silence of the room, no one heard it.

...Tick...

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

And that's it, folks! The final chapter of One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife. However, there is an epilogue, so make sure you come back for that, yes? -smile- see you then! -waves-

( And leave a review? Hehe. Thanks. Love ya!)


	14. Epilogue: Friendship

One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Epilogue one: Friendship

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Banners filled out in the breeze, whipping as the smell of new dirt wafted through the air. Clean seats glittered in the morning sun, new paint stood out in sharp contrast to the tendrils and ribbon that decorated the entire stadium.

The Sheepshead racetrack was in its utmost glory, refurbished and redone, it looked brand-new, as it had once been under Arthur Higgins' care. For weeks the doors had been closed to everyone, and now, after so long, the first race was about to start.

In the boxes set high above the ground many wealthy men sat, smoking expensive cigars and speaking in high numbers as the horses were led to the gates and set inside. The common people literally flooded the seats, some of them even trying to mash their way in to sit on the floor, for they could only go so far down.

The last three rows to the railings were reserved.

For the newsies.

Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, it didn't matter. They were all there, all within the same boundaries, sitting next to one another, joking and laughing. Only one boy was missing, and that was the one boy who should have been there the most- The leader of Brooklyn himself.

Missing with a minute to go before the gates opened.

Jack leaned over the rail, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He gave a sharp whistle and Ace's head popped up on the far end. "Where's Spot?!"

"I dunno!" The other cried, a cap pulled on low so that the sun stayed out of his eyes. "His men are all here!"

Cowboy frowned, eyes searching for a flash of red hair. However, after scanning at least half the newsies he remembered that Red no longer HAD red hair and was forced to start again. Eventually he found him, and with a wave of his hand he motioned him over.

The elder leaned on the rail, strands of his ebony hair falling into his eyes. "I don't know where he is, either." He answered to the unspoken question. "He said he'd be here, and thats all I know."

"Yeah, but as for being late, this is-"

The gates slammed open on the buzzer, drowning out any and all conversation among the newsboys. Many of them had never seen a horse race before, and this one had them all glued to their seats, leaning forward with mouth's open.

A small stallion immediately sprinted to the front, so graceful in his movements that it seemed he was running on air rather than dirt. His coat was a flash of sepia, his mane slightly lighter in color. The other horses didn't even seem to give it a challenge.

The rider bent low over his neck, almost seeming to whisper to him as the gloved hands turned him this way and that with ease. They moved as one, like it was meant to be. No longer was there rider and ridden. There was just the thrill, the rush.

In no time at all he had crossed the finish line, pulling up at the winner's circle amidst cheering and whistling. The rider sat up tall and proud, pulling his cap off and laughing with complete and utter joy.

"RACE!!!" Mush cried, starting up a chant in which all of the newsies joined in. No discriminating between territories, no rivalries, just brotherhood, as it had been once long ago during the strike.

Race dismounted, stroking the stallion's neck lovingly. He couldn't have been happier than at that moment, standing around his friends after the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. He owned the track, he had won the opening race, it was just...wow.

But the smile died as he looked around.

He had expected him to be here, had been told he would be here. But there was no cinnamon-hair in sight, no sparkling silver-blue eyes anywhere to be found. Red, seeing his obvious pain, softly placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry too much about it." He tried to sound chipper and failed. He was going to kill Spot for doing this. Especially when he knew how much it meant to Racetrack. "Spot...Spot's sometimes...he probably had a very good reason for missing-"

"Who said I missed it?"

Race spun on his heel, eyes sparkling when he caught sight of the Brooklyn leader. Spot was standing just a few feet away, his hair combed back neatly and a smile on his face. A true smile, not a smirk, not a sneer, but a smile that lit up his eyes and made them glitter.

"Hey Race." He said softly, "Nice ridin dere."

Race grinned, hands on his hips. "Maybe one day you'll get over your fear and come ridin with me." He knew that Spot would never do that. He was so afraid of horses just being near one made him nervous.

But it was still fun to tease him.

"Oh, Spottie is afraid of the big-bad horsey?" Jack laughed, throwing his arm around the smaller teen's shoulder. "Now now, there's nuttin to be afraid of-"

"You have to the count of three, Jack Kelly." Spot snarled.

"Look, they cant hurt you- they eat grass!"

"One."

"Oh, I know! Its probably because of a tragic childhood moment, am I right?"

"Two."

Jack snapped his fingers, "I know what we can do! We can get you a pony! Race, do you have any ponies-"

"THREE!" Spot roared, turning on him and throwing them both to the ground, snarling and snapping like an animal.

Race laughed so hard it hurt, his side aching as he leaned weakly onto Red, who wasn't faring much better. The entire group of newsies were in tears or near enough to them. It was just so funny, imagining Spot on the back of a pony.

"Mister Higgins." Someone cleared his throat and the fighting boys calmed and brushed themselves off as they got to their feet. Apparently everyone had forgotten where they were.

The co-owner, Mr. Morreti; a nice man who did everything he could to make sure Race had the very best, stood there, a smile on his face. "They need you to ride up to the podium and get your trophy so the next race can start, sir."

Race blinked, "Oh...sorry!" He leapt up onto Stardust's back, turning so he could get through to the podium, when his eyes caught Spot. Silently, he held out his hand.

Silently, Spot took it.

It was a moment or so later that Race had Spot seated behind him, arms around his waist to keep from falling off. It was a rather long way to fall after all. The former grinned back at his friend, "You okay?"

"Yeah." Spot breathed, gulping as they started forward. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Dear God, he was going to die.

He was going to fall off and hit his head, or the horse was going to rear up and smash him into the dirt, or maybe...maybe it was going to eat him...!Yes, it was going to EAT HIM...

"Hey...I gotcha.." Race murmurred, patting his hand lightly. "I wont let anything happen to you, don't you know that?"

Yes, Spot knew that.

Just like he knew he would never, ever, let anything else happen to the spunky youth that sat just in front of him. He couldn't, wouldn't...Race didn't deserve it. He deserved a nice and happy life, far from the dangers of the streets, far from the dangers of being a newsie.

"Hey, Spot?" Race asked, clearing his throat a little. "Is it...all right if I stay here...In Brooklyn...?"

"Yes, Race. A million times yes."

Race smiled softly as he turned them toward the crowd, toward his trophy, and toward the future.

One answer, one story, one path they had to walk.

Together.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

What can I say? This one was harder to write then the other, because Im a slash freak. But here, for all you slash haters, this is the friendship ending for you all. -grin-

So, how was it? Not how you expected it to end? Tell me in a _review. _You all know how much I love those. Heh.


	15. Epilogue Two: Slash

1One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Epilogue two: Slash

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Banners filled out in the breeze, whipping as the smell of new dirt wafted through the air. Clean seats glittered in the morning sun, new paint stood out in sharp contrast to the tendrils and ribbon that decorated the entire stadium.

The Sheepshead racetrack was in its utmost glory, refurbished and redone, it looked brand-new, as it had once been under Arthur Higgins' care. For weeks the doors had been closed to everyone, and now, after so long, the first race was about to start.

In the boxes set high above the ground many wealthy men sat, smoking expensive cigars and speaking in high numbers as the horses were led to the gates and set inside. The common people literally flooded the seats, some of them even trying to mash their way in to sit on the floor, for they could only go so far down.

The last three rows to the railings were reserved.

For the newsies.

Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, it didn't matter. They were all there, all within the same boundaries, sitting next to one another, joking and laughing. Only one boy was missing, and that was the one boy who should have been there the most- The leader of Brooklyn himself.

Missing with a minute to go before the gates opened.

Jack leaned over the rail, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He gave a sharp whistle and Ace's head popped up on the far end. "Where's Spot?!"

"I dunno!" The other cried, a cap pulled on low so that the sun stayed out of his eyes. "His men are all here!"

Cowboy frowned, eyes searching for a flash of red hair. However, after scanning at least half the newsies he remembered that Red no longer HAD red hair and was forced to start again. Eventually he found him, and with a wave of his hand he motioned him over.

The elder leaned on the rail, strands of his ebony hair falling into his eyes. "I don't know where he is, either." He answered to the unspoken question. "He said he'd be here, and thats all I know."

"Yeah, but as for being late, this is-"

The gates slammed open on the buzzer, drowning out any and all conversation among the newsboys. Many of them had never seen a horse race before, and this one had them all glued to their seats, leaning forward with mouth's open.

A small stallion immediately sprinted to the front, so graceful in his movements that it seemed he was running on air rather than dirt. His coat was a flash of sepia, his mane slightly lighter in color. The other horses didn't even seem to give it a challenge.

The rider bent low over his neck, almost seeming to whisper to him as the gloved hands turned him this way and that with ease. They moved as one, like it was meant to be. No longer was there rider and ridden. There was just the thrill, the rush.

In no time at all he had crossed the finish line, pulling up at the winner's circle amidst cheering and whistling. The rider sat up tall and proud, pulling his cap off and laughing with complete and utter joy.

"RACE!!!" Mush cried, starting up a chant in which all of the newsies joined in. No discriminating between territories, no rivalries, just brotherhood, as it had been once long ago during the strike.

Race dismounted, stroking the stallion's neck lovingly. He couldn't have been happier than at that moment, standing around his friends after the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. He owned the track, he had won the opening race, it was just...wow.

But the smile died as he looked around.

He had expected him to be here, had been told he would be here. But there was no cinnamon-hair in sight, no sparkling silver-blue eyes anywhere to be found. Red, seeing his obvious pain, softly placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry too much about it." He tried to sound chipper and failed. He was going to kill Spot for doing this. Especially when he knew how much it meant to Racetrack. "Spot...Spot's sometimes...he probably had a very good reason for missing-"

"Who said I missed it?"

Race spun on his heel, eyes sparkling when he caught sight of the Brooklyn leader. Spot was standing just a few feet away, his hair combed back neatly and a smile on his face. A true smile, not a smirk, not a sneer, but a smile that lit up his eyes and made them glitter.

"Hey Race." He said softly, "Nice ridin dere."

The elder didn't even remember moving, but he had to have, because he had grabbed Spot, pulling him down by his shirt-collar. It wasn't a soft kiss by any means, but firm, his desire and love for the other slipping through once and for all.

After nearly a lifetime Race pulled back, the crowd around them deathly silent. Realizing exactly where they were, the Manhattan newsie averted his gaze and cleared his throat, a soft blush on his face.

He had just kissed Spot Conlon.

Speaking of Spot, he seemed to be stuck to the ground on which he stood. His eyes were wide, mouth still parted slightly as a finger tip ran over his own lips like he couldn't believe what Race had done.

Not that Race really believed it either.

"Im...Im sorry..." He stammered, taking a step backwards. "Im sorry...I didn't...mean..."

Spot's hand shot out, wrapping around the other's shirt and pulling him forward so hard he staggered and fell into his arms. "If you ever say you didn't mean dat again...den...Den I'd have to soak ya, Race."

"Wha-" He started, but was cut off as his head was tilted back, and this time...He wasn't the one who had started it. He melted into the feeling, his hands just resting lightly against the slightly taller youth's chest.

Spot Conlon was kissing him.

And it felt amazing.

"Ahem." The sound of a throat clearing forced them apart, each of their faces scarlet red. The co-owner of the track, a very nice man by the name of Mr. Morreti was smiling at them with a knowing look as he informed Race that he had to ride up to the podium to get his trophy.

Running a hand through his hair, the newsie tried to look everywhere but at Spot as he mounted his stallion once again. But that seemed to be completely impossible because no matter in which direction he turned his face in, his eyes kept betraying him.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Race turned Stardust a little and held out a hand. "Spot?"

Letting Race help him up was possibly the most degrading thing the leader could do, but when one was very afraid of horses, getting help to mount one would probably be best. In no time at all, and with very few embarrassing moments, Spot was sitting just behind the other, his hands braced lightly around his waist.

"Are you sure bout this?"

Race wasn't talking about the ride.

"Yes, Race. A million times, yes."

Race smiled softly as he turned them toward the crowd, toward his trophy, and toward the future.

One answer, one story, one path for them to walk.

Together.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Aaaaaaaannnnnnndddddd here it is- the slash ending. Again, for those of you guys who liked the slashy side of things. So, how was it? Did it end like you thought it would?

Tell me on a _review_. Those things keep me going. I swear.


	16. Closing: Time

Time

Summary: Short story. Sequel to "One roll of the dice, one flip of a knife." When everything Race knows is destroyed, can he pick up the pieces and move on?

Coming: This New Year.

Just when you thought it was over.

_"Oh, come on, Spot." Race wasn't going to let this go easily. "You promised me. One ride. Just one. I swear." _

Just when you thought nothing else could happen.

_"Be careful tonight, Race. I have a bad feeling."_

It does.

_Race woke to the sound of fire engines screaming, enveloped in heat. He bolted up in bed, looking around in shock. Faintly, from underneath him, he heard the unmistakable sound of fire ravaging the Sheepshead Racetrack. _

**Time.**


End file.
